


I shall not look on your white walls again

by Himring



Series: Hurin & Huor [2]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Dor-lómin, Edain, F/M, Gondolin, Light Angst, Poetry, Romance, reference to canonical death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2018-03-17 23:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3547388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Himring/pseuds/Himring
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trying to settle back into his old life after his return from the hidden city of Gondolin, Huor of Dor-lomin meets his future wife Rian of the House of Beor for the first time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I shall not look on your white walls again

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Robinka](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Robinka).



> Inspired by Robinka's bio recent bio of Huor for the Silmarillion Writers Guild and dedicated to her.
> 
> The B2MeM prompt was my own and based on the following quotation:  
> ""[Rian] was a singer and a maker of songs"

It was not that he disagreed with his brother or regretted their decision. He could by no means, any more than Hurin, have borne to live out a sheltered life in a hidden valley while, beyond the mountains, their kin fought and died—not Huor! Nobody had been able to stop him from going along to his first battle, although even by the standards of the Edain he had been considered too young—and even though the experience had been terrifying and he had accomplished little, all that had taught him was a fierce determination to do better next time…  
  
No, it had nothing to do with war and the threat of Morgoth, despite what those had already cost them since they had returned from Gondolin. The house of Hador never counted their losses more than once. Huor’s response to every attack—including the one in which his father died—was to whet his axe until its edge was razor-sharp and plan to aim his blows more precisely and hit harder when the enemy came again. He did not hanker for a peace or safety that all his people could not share.  
  
It did not seem to be the beauty of Gondolin either that filled him with a longing he could not put a name to or identify. It was true that he could recall, with almost elven precision, moments of breath-taking beauty: sunlight gleaming on the white walls of the city above the green vale of Tumladen; the sound of Ecthelion’s flute, impossibly sweet and ethereal, despite Ecthelion’s habitual slightly standoffish manner; the flash of white feet as Idril ran laughing, barefoot along the corridors; Turgon standing beside golden Glingal and speaking of its making… He treasured each and every of these memories, but they did not seem to evoke a need. Oh, to be sure, it would have been a pleasure to see all that again, if occasion had allowed...  
  
Sometimes, he wondered whether it was elvishness in itself, whether something about elvendom had spoiled him for living among the Edain as one of them. Their time in Gondolin had changed them, him and his brother, certainly. Did they maybe act differently, think differently—a change deeper and more comprehensive than having learnt to speak Sindarin with a purer accent and read fluently in Quenya? For a time, he covertly studied the court of Fingon every time he went to Barad Eithel, seeking clues to the mysteries of his own heart. But although he found High King Fingon no less worthy of his loyalty than his brother Turgon—perhaps in some ways even more as they fought alongside each other—and although he moved with greater confidence and ease among the Noldor and Sindar than many of his kin, Huor doubted that whatever ailed him could have been cured by living constantly among elves.  
  
Hurin, at any rate, seemed to have no such problem taking up threads again where he had left off. He had slipped easily back into his role as heir of Dor-lomin and, as far as Huor could tell, it was a seamless fit. And now he was the lord of Dor-lomin himself, their father’s successor, and a great hero to boot, Fingon’s trusted right hand, and he was courting Morwen of the House of Beor! Hurin’s progress was very reassuring, even if Huor also felt mildly envious—not of the honours heaped on Hurin, but of his apparent inner certainty—and he never felt more comfortable than in the familiar company of his brother.  
  
Maybe, he thought, it was partly a matter of age, of his being the younger of the two? Fosterage in Brethil, the brief time in Gondolin—literally out of their world—the return to Dor-lomin, his father’s death—so much had changed so quickly for him! And he was still young—people had always taken him for older than he was because he grew so tall so quickly. Maybe he would grow out of it, whatever it was.  
  
He had been separated from Hurin more frequently than he liked, recently, and had only just returned to his side, for, if Hurin was Fingon’s trusted right hand, Huor was Hurin’s and frequently it was Huor who went back and forth between Barad Eithel and  Dor-lomin to aid his widowed mother in her stewardship of the land and deal with things at home when obligations to Fingon kept Hurin at court. Besides, Hurin had been reluctant to leave Barad Eithel while his courtship of Morwen was under way, wishing to press matters to a swift conclusion so that he could offer Morwen a home of her own as soon as possible.  
  
Morwen, Huor thought, was wholly admirable, but a little intimidating—stunningly beautiful and courageous, a good match for his heroic brother, and, if her view of life tended a little towards the dark side, no wonder, after everything she had been through… Her standards could be a little exacting, though. Maybe she would ease up a little after she wed Hurin. Not that she seemed overly disposed to criticize his brother, not in the least—it was very evident that she thought the world of Hurin as he did of her and, as far as Huor was concerned, that was the best thing about her. It was Huor himself who sometimes felt his shortcomings a little in her presence, even if Morwen would never have been so impolite as to actually mention them.  
  
Tonight she had clearly put on her best for Hurin—dark blue velvet and silver—and there was an unusual sparkle to her that in another woman might have been gaiety. She greeted Huor cordially when he joined her and his brother in the long gallery and the three of them walked slowly back and forth together along the length of the gallery, talking, weaving their way around other small groups that were similarly engaged as they went.  
  
Morwen could not take her eyes off his brother, thought Huor. They would have a wedding soon, however Morwen’s pride might delay things. She was too conscious of being an exile without inheritance, despite the fact that Fingon had promised a substantial dowry in her father’s stead and Hurin was only too eager to lay the wealth of Dor-lomin at her feet.  
  
They were, of course, discussing politics. They would have been, even if they had not been expecting a summons to a short council meeting at any moment. Morwen had a sharp mind and Huor rather thought that Hurin had been learning from her, as also from others when he could.  
  
‘But where,’ Hurin asked suddenly, looking around him, ‘is Rian?’  
  
Huor had not even known Rian was supposed to be there. In fact, he had not encountered her yet. He knew who she was, of course: Morwen’s cousin, the daughter of Belegund of the House of Beor—an exile from Dorthonion, like Morwen. But she must lead a very different life from Morwen’s; at any rate, she was not a regular at court.  
  
‘Oh, Rian,’ said Morwen, ‘you know how she is…!’  
  
The words might sound a little dismissive, but the tone was not, thought Huor. Morwen was almost smiling.  
  
‘I expect she got bored by our talk and wandered off into the garden over there,’ said Morwen. ‘Shall we go and join her for a bit?’  
  
But just then they saw Captain Berion approaching and they knew the summons had come, sooner than expected.  
  
‘Huor,’ said Hurin, ‘will you do us a favour? Please go and find Rian and let her know where we have gone! I do not know whether she will wish to wait—if she does, will you show her to our rooms in the meantime? I do not think she will want to remain here, in the gallery.’  
  
‘Of course,’ said Huor and went to look for Morwen’s cousin.  
  
***  
  
He stepped out onto the terrace, into the night. At first he thought Morwen had been wrong and Rian was not there. Then his eyes adjusted and he saw a woman out on the lawn. Her back was towards him. She seemed to be standing in a clump of daffodils. He could not make out much more detail, but she was clearly of the Edain, not an elf, and he supposed this must be Rian, although he would not have expected a guest to stray off the path.  
  
While he was still hesitating how to make himself known to her, the woman lifted her head a little and began to sing:  
  
_Love is the weakest thing._  
_Afraid to speak its name,_  
_every day,_  
_it fades when breathed upon,_  
_crackles underfoot like ice,_  
_goes up in roaring flame._  
  
_Love is the strongest thing,_  
_every day,_  
_it thaws after hard frost,_  
_sprouts even after charring,_  
_shouts itself against the towering sky._  
  
Her voice rang out strong and clear in the nocturnal garden—and, although it seemed she was singing to herself, she sang without any sign of fear of an unintended audience, be it elf or Man. It seemed to Huor that the whole elvish garden around them stopped to listen, yet as far as he could tell, he was the only one who heard.  
  
After a moment, he cleared his throat.  
  
‘Lady Rian?’  
  
She turned to look at him.  
  
‘Lady Rian, I am Huor of Dor-lomin. Your cousin Morwen has sent me to look for you.’  
  
She waded carefully through the daffodils; then, moving more swiftly, stepped across the low railing to stand in front of him. She had not spoken, but looked at him questioningly, unembarrassed.  
  
‘They were summoned—Morwen and my brother Hurin—just after they noticed you had gone--left the gallery, I mean.’  
  
Rian shrugged.  
  
‘They were making plans,’ she said, as if by way of explanation.  
  
It was the way she said it that made him ask almost inadvertently: ‘And what do you make, my lady?’  
  
Then he wondered whether that was not a rather fatuous question.  
  
But she lifted her chin a little—as if someone had told her that one of the Second-born—or maybe a woman or maybe a scion of the House of Beor—ought not to be doing such things. He suspected Morwen but found out later that he was wrong.  
  
She said: ‘I make songs.’  
  
It was the lift of the chin that did it, as much as the words.  
  
It had no more logic to it than the previous feeling of displacement and longing had had. But just that little movement—just seeing Rian lift her chin in defiance—allowed that bit of himself that seemed to have gone missing somewhere on the road from Brethil through Gondolin back to Dor-lomin to catch up with him. He had finally arrived and was whole again.  
  
He did not forget Gondolin. But, because Rian of the House of Beor existed, he would be completely content to live and die for Dor-lomin.


End file.
